like you never fought a war
by Meer-Katnip
Summary: There's really no point to this anymore, but the two of you keep forcing your way forwards. Somehow.
1. Chapter 1

Did somebody say 'weird, twisted Sans and Frisk codependency fic with angst and slight PTSD thrown in'? Wait, nobody did? Oh, oops…

Anyway, this was pretty much inspired by Draikinator's amazing fics (go read them, they're a much better writer than I am) and it's a bit messed up. Frisk uses ASL in this fic and is selectively mute as well as non-binary. Please tell me how I can improve my writing. I'm only really a beginner and I need all the feedback I can get.

Quote of the day (which was also kind of an inspiration for this story):

 _"'Nothing ever goes the way you planned', as an Earth pop band called Modern Romance once put it. But they also said 'ay ay ay moosey', so we can't regard them as having a coherent philosophical position."_ ~Bernice Summerfield

* * *

 ** _Chapter One_**

 _The human steps out from behind the door without a hint of caution, takes a short look around, and continues walking, even as you watch. Their expression is carefully blank, and their eyes are too deep in shadow for you to read any expression on their face. It looks like they haven't slept for a week._

 _They don't seem to hear the soft crunching of your footsteps in the freshly fallen snow, and when you come up behind them to begin your spiel; they turn around and shake your hand without even being prompted. The whoopee cushion goes off, the sound flat and unamusing, but they don't even react._

 _They blink placidly at you, and you hurry on with talking to them. It's really disturbing, actually, their lack of reaction. Even more disturbing is the fact that their striped shirt and hands seem to be covered in a thin grey dust. You try to dismiss it as nothing. The Ruins are probably pretty dirty behind that door. The fact that there's dust all over them doesn't mean that they, well, killed anyone._

 _You really should've known better._

* * *

The text comes in a few hours after midnight, and the buzz that your phone makes when it receives it is enough to wake you up out of the dark, blissful realms of drunken sleep. You're not generally a very heavy sleeper, so it doesn't bother you unduly, but you still lie in the tangled sheets of your bed for a few minutes before sitting up, internally debating if you should pick it up or leave it until morning.

The phone buzzes again, as if in response to your thoughts. Maybe it's just your imagination, but it sounds slightly more urgent. With a sigh that rattles your teeth, you sweep your phone off the side table so it bounces and lies face-up on the mattress. Your fingers slide over the lock screen and the display lights up instantly- you're far too lazy to actually put a password onto it- and with seconds, a message blinks lazily on the screen. The sender is labelled as 'Frisk', which doesn't really surprise you, but you really wish that they could've waited until tomorrow or something. Another tap. Message opens. You have to tilt your head to actually read it, and when it becomes visible, it takes another moment to process.

Ah, hangovers. You gotta love them.

 _\- Come pick me up  
\- Please?_

The message reeks of desperation, and you almost cringe. You tap for the keypad, and type out a quick reply.

* _can't you take a taxi or something?_

A few moments later, the reply comes, and you stare at it as the phone rattles in your grip.

 _\- No._

And they leave it at that, like that's some kind of response that makes sense and will end any oncoming argument. Maybe it is, since all you do is sigh, sit up in bed, and begin fumbling for your jacket with one hand while still typing with the other.

* _where are you?_

You hit send, and it takes both hands to slip your comfortingly puffy blue jacket over your shoulders, so you put the phone down on the side table, and do that. You snatch up your motorcycle's keys, tucking them into the pocket and half-zipping it up. One of your shoes is under the bed and the other is lying on the third shelf of the bookcase that Papyrus helped set up- mostly you just sat to the side and made bad puns in the process- so you distract yourself with finding them and putting them on for a moment. While you're at it, the phone buzzes again. You lean over, scanning the screen. There's a short, concise description there that shouldn't take too much effort to find. You throw one last, longing look at your bed before opening the door- it creaks a bit- and padding quietly down the stairs towards the front door.

Your motorcycle is parked outside, leaning between the side of the garage and the large red sports car that takes up most of the space. The car is polished and well-looked after, while your small blue bike is slightly more dirty and scuffed. But it works well for you, and can reach speeds that are actually quite impressive. Better yet, you can take shortcuts with it, which is handy when you're running late for anything at all. Or if you need to go pick up a friend.

You pull the key out of your pocket, and start the engine up, swinging yourself onto the seat. For a second you just sit there, staring blankly at the roof as the motorcycle idles and you just _think_ \- about all sorts of things. How you got to this point. _Why_ you got to this point. Why you're currently about to head off at the crack of dawn to pick up the kid who saved all of monsterkind. Hell, now that you actually think about it, you don't quite even know why yourself. You kick off the ground, and motor out of the driveway and onto the road. Gravel hisses and spits beneath the tyres until you speed up, and then you barely notice the noise anymore.

It's the work of moments to find an appropriate shortcut to get you halfway across town and towards Mount Ebott. You take a right turn through the fourth and fifth dimensions, ignoring the uncomfortable twisting feeling that it brings in your skull- you're more than used to that sort of thing by now. Your phone buzzes furiously, shaking against your ribcage, and you slow down enough for your hand to slip down to pull it up to eyesight.

- _Are you coming?_

With a sudden dip of guilt, you realize that you never wrote back after the last message. It's too shaky on the gravel road where you currently are to compose anything too lengthy, but you can type three letters and hit 'send' without too much hassle.

* _yep_

The phone seems appeased by that, so you tuck it away again, and concentrate on steering. A building is visible in the distance- a bus stop, faintly green-and-white against the darkness. The dim, hesitant light of a street lamp is shining onto it, and there's a figure huddled on the seat. That's the place, then. It doesn't look as if any buses will be coming- at least not any time soon, so it's safe to assume that the rather bedraggled-looking human is Frisk.

You cheat a bit, and take another shortcut so you don't have to go all the way up the hill, and it hardly gives you a headache at all this time. You swerve and screech to an undignified halt next to the bus stop, sending dirt scattering. It's not your usual sort of entrance- you're normally much more subdued than this. Well, never mind that.

Frisk is still sitting in the same position that you first saw them in, but they uncurl a tiny bit at your approach, and stare out at you with shadowed eyes. They're wearing their old striped shirt, which they've had for years and is far, far too small for them. It has suspicious-looking stains and rips and tears all over it, but they've got it wrapped so tightly around them that it looks like it's the most comfy thing that they've ever worn. Comfort clothes, you guess. You can relate.

Their hands shoot out and move rapidly in short motions. _You're drunk._

"so are you," you reply, having already seen the telltale marks- the slurring of motions between the signed words; the slight glassiness to their eyes.

Their hands move again, quite irritably. _How do skeletons manage to get drunk, anyway?_ The sharp downwards gesture that accompanies the word 'skeleton' is done sharply and almost jeeringly. It matches the scowl on their face. You consider the question carefully.

"magic," you say dryly, and sign the word for emphasis- a twirl of both the hands that ends in all the fingers splayed out, palms downwards. They laugh aloud, but it's a sharp, jeering sound that dwindles away quickly into nothing. They stare off into the horizon, where the faintest sliver of sunlight is appearing, and their face goes blank. You shrug and remove the key from the ignition of your motorcycle, leaning it against the corrugated aluminium of the bus shelter. For a moment, you stand and look in the same direction as them, and note the brilliant rays of gold and orange that are spiralling through the sky, turning it pale pink. The perfect, Hallmark-esque image is streaked through with clouds trailing wistfully through the cacophony of color. They're dyed red. Blood red.

You drag your gaze from it, and go to sit next to Frisk on the bench, which creaks at the extra weight. It was only really designed for one person. They scoot away from you, and press themselves up against the opposite side of it.

"what was it this time?" you ask mildly, and they take their time in responding. Their hands rise, and lower, and come up again.

 _Humans are stupid,_ they sign eventually, the childish phrasing coming through even in the three words. They sigh out huffily. _It's like normal racism, but worse. There's been a series of attacks targeted at monsters especially and nobody does anything. Three T-E-M-M-I-E-S were killed in the last one._

"oh," you say, because you hadn't heard about that. "guess being ambassador's hard work."

 _Like you'd know,_ they sign tightly in your direction. _All you do is hang around in bars nowadays._ A pause. _What was it this time?_

You fold your arms, and are silent. They make a dismissive, wordless gesture in your direction before continuing. _Or didn't you have a reason?_

"i always have a reason, kid."

Hands in motion again. _Don't call me K-I-D._ The last words are spelled out for emphasis. _I haven't been one for a long time._

"yeah, we all know you're twenty one and independent," you say, and you would roll your eyes if you actually had any. "that doesn't stop anyone from caring about you. no one's seen you for days and tori's worried sick."

 _I'm fine,_ they sign, and turn away, burying their face against their too-tight jumper.

"liar."

"You are too," they mutter aloud, and the faint sound of their voice, so very rarely used, nearly surprises you. Just nearly. They shift a bit closer to you.

"everyone is, kid," you reply, and they glare at you before closing their eyes.

 _Go away, Sans,_ they sign tiredly. Your name is a sort of stiff swirl of their hands that ends with them crooking their fingers outwards.

"thought you wanted me to pick you up."

 _I can get home fine._

"then why did you text me?"

They don't respond, and they pull out their phone. You watch as they open up a game of Angry Birds, and settle into playing it with much more intensity than is actually needed. Their fingers dart across the screen, plucking and tapping so fast that they become a blur. With one hand, they sign _go away_ again, flipping it away from their face in a quick and irritated fashion.

The sunlight's breaking forth from behind horizon and the color-tinted clouds, and it's casting shadows across Frisk's face. You watch them for a minute or two, and then turn to walk to your motorbike.

"frisk," you say, and a slight tilt of their head is the only indication that they're listening. "just remember, uh, we're all here for you. if you need us."

They place their phone down on the seat next to them, and their hands flit quickly up. _I don't._

You sigh. "that's fine, but, kid… just _humerus_ for a bit, please?"

As you turn away again, and slot the key into the ignition, you just barely see a slight smile drift over their face.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Chapter Two_**

* * *

 _You really should've known better than to let Papyrus go off and face a practically insane human that seems to be bent on destroying all of monsterkind. Especially since all of Snowdin's been evacuated already in crowds of panicking, fleeing monsters._

 _You arrive just in time to see the kid standing over your brother's body, which is slowly crumbling to a fine, ash-grey dust in the white snow._

 _"YOU CAN DO A LITTLE BETTER!" he declares to the human, and it twists at your heart. Papyrus, loyal and trusting to the end. "EVEN IF YOU DON'T THINK SO! I… I PROMISE!"_

 _And he's gone, flaking away into powder that spreads onto the ground in a dark stain which the human scoops their fingers through happily before sheathing their knife and walking away into the mist, in the direction of Waterfall. You stare in their direction for a moment, and then look at the ground where your brother had been standing only moments before._

 _You're frozen in place, and you think you might be shaking a bit. This can't be happening. This can't be happening. Your brother- your brilliant, amazing, stupidly trusting brother- can't have just been killed by some kid with a kitchen knife._

 _You scramble forwards, and rakes your fingerbones through the snow until they catch on a piece of brilliantly red fabric that's the only thing left of Papyrus. His scarf. It's his scarf. It's your scarf, now._

 _You twist it around your hands, then shakily drape it around your shoulders._

 _This is all so wrong._

* * *

Peace negotiations with the humans have been going on for over a decade, and they're not likely to stop anytime soon. That's the thing about bureaucracy- it's the same on both sides, human and monster. Just a bunch of people in suits procrastinating, and not likely to get anything at all done. It's the reason why you've stayed out of it for the most part. You've only stepped in once or twice, and only when things were going really badly. It doesn't happen often, which suits you well. You hate getting involved- and no one seems to understand that. Hence, the reason why you've had to make a separate email account to catch all of the messages that follow a certain pattern. You only check it occasionally, and only when you're in a good mood.

The messages fall into one of two categories.

First, there's the insulting type of messages. _You're an animal and you should be put down. Monsters were sealed underground for a very good reason. Go crawl back into the hole you came from._ For some reason, you've developed quite a large hate club despite your minimal appearances in the media. Most of these sorts of messages read like they were composed by a thirty-something white suburban mom named Linda. The rest were probably written by five year olds. These sorts of emails are actually hilarious to read- probably because you're nothing but a complete troll at the best of times. Occasionally you write back. Your responses usually involve memes and rickrolling, and at one point, images of Colin Baker from the 1970s. Hilarious.

The other sorts of messages- well, you basically skim them and archive them, never to see the light of day again. They're generally from Toriel and Asgore, although sometimes Alphys sends short, unsure memos through. They're always the same. Always. _Dear Sans, would you mind helping out with insert problem here at insert time here if it isn't too much trouble, since you're good at this sort of thing,_ which you're not. You're a complete lazybones who doesn't have the time or inclination to do anything apart from sit around doing things that don't need to be done. Hell, even your pet rock's probably died of boredom by now.

You're sorting through your inbox today, barely even reading any of the emails. Spam, spam, hatemail, spam, more hatemail and a half-hearted request from Asgore to join everyone for some sort of fancy party even though he knows full well that you're not going. You consider this time, just to surprise everyone, then dismiss it as too much effort.

You're so lost in this process of basically ignoring everything that you almost pass over a message sent only a few hours ago. It's from Frisk, which is weird in itself because they never send emails to you, ever. Their standard method of communication is a short text or occasionally a note dropped in the mailbox outside if the battery on their phone's dead. Never an email.

You open it, out of a slightly morbid curiosity. It's almost as short as one of their texts.

 _Ambassador's dinner,_ it says, and gives the date, time, and place. _I need support. Please come._

You stare at the screen, and laugh in bewilderment. No. Just… no. This isn't your sort of thing at all, and they know that full well. You twist around on your swivel chair and snatch up your phone.

* _no way, kid. find someone else._

The reply to that is so fast that it's almost as if they've been waiting for you to text.

\- _Can't. Everyone's busy that night. Stop calling me kid._

* _you'll do fine on your own. you don't need me._

\- _I do.  
-Please._

* _no._

There's a slight, almost unnoticeable pause between this and the next message.

\- _Just consider it._

You pause too, drumming your fingers along the keypad.

* _fine._

And there's nothing else. No bribery, no more pleading, not even a smiley face- which is fairly unlikely under the circumstances, anyhow. You wait for a few minutes, and then slide your phone back onto the desk, staring at it- daring it to move.

It stays put.

You do as Frisk says, and you consider it. You actually sit there and expend far more time than you should on weighing up the pros and cons of attending an event in which there will be absolutely _no_ pranking, _no_ stupid puns, and lots and lots of standing around, flinging around barbed compliments at rich people.

Not a chance.

"sorry, frisk," you mutter, dragging a bony hand absently across your laptop keyboard. Random letters and symbols go cascading over the screen. "not this time."

You decide to text them with your decision tomorrow, to at least give the impression that you had been thinking about it for longer than a few minutes. Not that it's much of a decision, anyway.

* * *

But you forget.

And then you forget the day after that. And the day after _that._ It's not that you're particularly busy with anything- you're never busy with anything. Maybe you've been _trying_ to forget it, for reasons that escape you just at the moment.

That's made pretty clear by the fact that the next lucid memory you have is of being shaken awake at Grillby's by someone with far much more force than strictly necessary.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Chapter Three_**

* * *

 _This is all so wrong and nothing is okay with the world._

 _You've somehow managed to make your way to the door in the forest, and you lean against it, staring down at the snow- white and blank and calming. You're half-heartedly tapping at the door, waiting for a response that you know isn't coming._

 _"knock knock," you call hopefully, praying for a response from the woman behind the door. You wait for a minute, two minutes, three minutes, before answering yourself. "who's there?"_

 _You wait again, and then bury your skull in your arms, not crying because skeletons don't cry._

 _"a couple of people who're too short to reach the doorbell," you mutter into your jacket, and curl up against the wind and snow miserably, wishing that anyone was there to respond. Undyne's not responding to your calls and text messages, and all you can get out of Alphys is a short, stressed message that informs you she's fine. And nothing else._

 _You want Papyrus back._

 _You wish he was here._

 _But nobody comes._

* * *

Their nails are biting into your bones, which you wouldn't normally notice but you're feeling strangely sensitive right now. For some reason, you get the deep, resonating impression that you've fucked up (again), and _badly._ The feeling is unique in the fact that you haven't felt it since-

-well…

"Sans, _get up._ "

You mumble something incomprehensible, and elbow at the person who's shaking you, and they elbow you right back, hard in the ribs. You sit up, flinging them off you with perhaps a bit too much force, and turn to glare at the offender, ready to blast them off the face of the Earth if necessary.

Oh.

 _Oh._

Frisk glares right back at you, meeting your gaze with level fury. They're dressed- for the conference, presumably- in a neat black suit and tie, but their hair is dishevelled and uncombed. They look… well, _tired._ Rings under their eyes, limbs hanging loosely- but still looking like they could easily commit small-scale genocide in a heartbeat.

 _Where the hell were you?_ they sign furiously, hands shaking slightly.

"said i wasn't going," you mutter, and turn back to the bar, crossing your arms in front of you. They grab you by your shoulders and spin you around forcefully.

 _No. You. Didn't._ Their hands are most definitely shaking now, so much that they drop them to their sides. "You said you'd think about it, and you never told me" _anything otherwise_ "so I assumed that you'd come and I didn't bother to get" _anyone else to go instead._ They're switching between signing and hissing their words out furiously so quickly that it's almost painful to watch.

"look, kid-" you begin, and they get right up in your face, forming their words with feverish, frantic motions.

 _STOP CALLING ME KID_

Your hands shoot up to rub at your skull- purely reflexive, it doesn't help in the least. "frisk-"

"I thought you'd be doing something important," they growl. "Instead, I find you in a fucking _bar._ "

You place your skull in the crooks of your arms, and wish that you were asleep or dead, or at the very least somewhere else. "i _was_ busy."

"Getting drunk," they say scornfully.

"…yeah."

You hear them laugh bitterly under their breath, and then there's the jingle and clatter of money being slammed onto the wood. You look up, and see Grillby and Frisk holding a silent conversation, which cumulates with the owner of the restaurant nodding reluctantly and retreating into the back room. Frisk loops an arm around you, and pulls you to your feet. The two of you begin towards the door in some sort of crude mockery of a three-legged race.

"what did you do?"

They let go of you long enough to sign briefly. _Paid off your tab._ They don't seem much for talking at the moment, which is fine, since you don't especially want to talk.

"all of it?" you ask despite yourself. To say that your tab is huge would be an understatement. It would probably take more than what the entire Underground was paid in a year to fully pay it off.

They nod shortly, and before you can speak, continue dragging your forwards and out the door, which closes with a creak behind you. Somehow, day's turned to night while you were inside, although you could have sworn it was only a few hours ago. There's a park just across the road, and a park bench on the side closest to Grillby's, and Frisk leads you roughly to it. They point, and the meaning is clear: _sit down._

You sit.

Frisk stays standing, biting at their lip, and twisting their neat white shirt with clenched fists. For all of their attitude and rage just a few minutes ago, right now they look like they're just a few seconds away from bursting into floods of tears.

 _Okay,_ they begin, hands hesitant and jerky. _Here's the thing-_

They stop, abruptly, open their mouth like they're about to speak, close it again, and suddenly their expression drops and they look pathetic and just a little lost.

"aw, frisk…" you start, beginning to stand up, but they scramble backwards, grimacing in protest.

"I was depending on you!" they blurt, sounding pathetic and young and hurt, and it wrenches at your non-existent heart. "I _needed_ you, and you didn't come-"

"that's not fair-"

"I froze up!" they snap at you, and their jaw seems to lock in place abruptly. After a few tries of attempting to form a sentence, they give up and begin to write words in the air with their hands. _They were asking me about-_ pause – _some things._

"what things?" you ask cautiously, sitting down again. You motion for them to come and sit next to you, but they shake their head and continue signing.

 _If any monsters are dangerous. If any of them need to be-_ a long, long pause – _put down. Killed._

"wow," you say, and shift where you sit, readjusting your jacket. "what did you say?"

They glare at you. _I didn't,_ they sign. _I told you, I froze up._

"shit," you hiss with feeling. "so, now they think- hell, I don't know, that we've been forcing you to do this ambassador work for us- or that you're hiding something-"

 _I am hiding something,_ Frisk signs. _Plenty of things. They know that._

You look at them for a moment, hunched miserably against the wind and illuminated faintly in the dim shine of a streetlight. It takes a moment to click. "they've been trying to frame something on you," you realize, and the look of half-relief that steals across their face fills you with some sort of triumph.

They nod unhappily, and elaborate with a reluctant motion of their hands. _They succeeded._

You sit there in stunned silence for a moment. "wow," you say, and consider. "want me to dunk them for you?"

They laugh again, a short, sharp sound. "Sans," they say. "You're drunk. Go home."

And before you can react, they turn sharply on their heel and walk off, melting into the shadows as they reach the end of the street. You aren't coherent enough to do anything more than sit and gape as they leave you, alone, in the park. You suppose you deserve it, really.

What you _don't_ get is why it hurts so much.

It's not supposed to.

You're not supposed to have gotten so attached to- so _dependent_ on- this one human, who's still quite young, especially by monster standards. It wasn't part of any sort of half-baked plan that you had vaguely thought about in any timeline at all.

Nothing ever goes the way you plan it, and it's really not fair at all.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Chapter Four_**

* * *

 _Nobody comes for a long time as you wait in the Judgement Hall for the little demon who's completely destroyed your life, your friends, and your home. The light's shining in from the windows, casting fractal shapes and patterns across the tiled floor._

 _They step into the hall, and you turn to give them your speech. You hate speech-making, but you feel like you need to do this. To give yourself a sense of closure, even if they're probably not listening to a single word you say._

 _"it's a beautiful day outside."_

 _They're already bringing their knife out. It's thickly caked with dust, which they brush off on their sleeve, letting you see it shining in the light._

 _"birds are singing. flowers are blooming."_

 _They grin, and you grin back with no joy whatsoever._

 _"days like these…"_

 _Hands raised. Ready for attacks._

 _"…kids like you…"_

 _You're ready too. This is it. This is the end._

 _"SHOULD BE BURNING IN HELL"_

 _And everything starts to go wrong._

* * *

You don't see Frisk for another week or so. They seem to have completely disappeared- no appearances in the media at all. No one's seen them around town, or even outside. Not that you've been checking after them, that is. You only know this because of the somewhat angry phone call from Undyne on Saturday evening.

"Sans!" she barks as soon as you pick it up, not even giving you time to check the caller ID. "What the _fuck_ did you do this time?"

You kind of stare dumbly at the handset for a second. "sorry?"

"Frisk! They didn't come over for anime night with me and Alphys, and they _always_ come over for anime night!"

"anime night?" you have just enough time mutter under your breath before Undyne pushes on.

"And I _know_ it's something that you've done, because ever since they asked you to do that ambassador thing with you and you refused, they've been all mopey in their text messages. So _what the hell did you do?_ "

"i didn't do anything," you begin, and then you kind of trail off mid-sentence, because that's not entirely true, is it? You're really not any sort of contender for the prize 'best friend in the world', what with all your mental mess-ups, and the fact that you really don't come when called, and-

"Yeah, right," Undyne says (you can practically hear the sarcasm and contempt dripping off her voice) and the line crackles with static for a brief moment. "Listen, skeleton, I don't know what sort of screwed up thing you have with Frisk, but let me tell you this. It's absolute _crap._ "

"um," you say.

"Here's the thing, Sans," she says, and you can imagine her getting close to the phone on her end, eyes practically flashing in that peculiar sort of anger she gets whenever she's being protective of Frisk. "Codependency is really fucking bad for you."

"we're not-" you begin, and then you consider for a moment. Frisk at your door, after they've had a nightmare, shaking and tears streaking down their face and desperate for comfort. Frisk, dragging you out of bars the thousand or so times that you've been in deep, deep depression and in severe need of sobering up. Long strings of text messages of reassurance, bouncing between the two of you: they're not going to reset the world and you're not going to go insane with grief and kill them- or worse, yourself.

"See?" Undyne says, having heard your conspicuous silence and understood what it means. "They _need_ you, Sans, and I'm not sure if it's a good thing or not, but that doesn't really matter right now. I have no idea how your weird shortcuts work, but I know that you can find them. So get the hell out of your stupid depression or whatever excuse you're using this week, and..." She trails off. "Just bring them back, okay?"

You're silent for a moment, but you don't hang up.

"Sans?" asks Undyne tentatively, and you think that she sounds a bit scared for some reason. Afraid that she's overstepped her authority. Afraid that she's gone too far. She hasn't- that little speech actually really helped- and you want to tell her that, but you can't quite find the words.

"yeah," you say, almost automatically. "i'll do that. thanks, undyne."

"Okay," she sighs, sounding more than just a bit relieved. "Okay. Call me later?"

"yeah."

You hit a button randomly, and it's pretty much pure luck that it's the 'end call' button. You set it down carefully, and lean back, staring at the ceiling of your darkened room. There's little white pinpricks glowing there- Papyrus had pasted some glow-in-the-dark stickers up there when you had mentioned your love for astronomy a few months before. It's oddly comforting.

Undyne is right- absolutely right. It's probably time to get up and off your lazy ass and do something about Frisk's weird problems, and maybe some of your own, too.

The main problem is that you really don't feel like doing it. It's too much effort. It would be so much easier to just let everything continue as it is, and maybe just pretend that nothing is happening.

Undyne calls back again, fifteen minutes later.

"SANS!" she screeches, as soon as you pick up. " _Are you moving yet?!_ "

You consider lying, and then decide not to bother. "no," you admit.

" _What the fuck is wrong with you?_ "

A lot of things.

"i'm going now," you announce to her, and hang up abruptly, heading to the door of your house before you can even consider going back and procrastinating again.

* * *

 _Everything starts to go wrong after you use your 'special attack'._

 _It's not really a special attack, to be perfectly honest. It's more like giving up. So what if the Underground is destroyed by some kid in a stripy shirt? There's nothing left to live for in it. Everyone's dead. Everyone's gone, and it's your fault for not stopping the human in time._

 _So, in the middle of the battle, you decide to take a nap, not really caring if they kill you or not. There's really no point to it anymore._

 _You're giving up the final thing left to you- hope._

 _It's not entirely surprising when they stab you._

 _Right. In. The. Ribs. And it hurts like hell._

 _As you begin to fade and crumble and disintegrate, you think you can see your brother. Standing there. Waiting for you. You smile, and for the first time in a very long while, you feel something hopeful stirring inside you._

 _And then the world resets._

 _And you're back at the beginning. Doing it all over again._

* * *

You find them at the bus stop again, and it only takes you a few minutes to get there. They're lying on top of the slanted aluminium roof this time, staring upwards at the stars. They don't seem to notice your presence, or if they do, they just ignore it. They're humming a song under their breath. It's slow, sad, and a bit wistful, and it's carrying, echoing faintly around the deserted road.

"uh," you say to alert them to the fact that you're there. "i, uh, came to make sure you were okay."

They sit bolt upright, and almost topple off the roof and to the ground. You're halfway to moving to catch them before they steady theirself.

 _I'm fine,_ they sign, a bit shakily, when you make a motion as if to lift them down. It doesn't matter, really- they're probably a bit too big for you to carry them anyway.

They cross their legs, and continue to gaze up at the stars. You watch them.

"i came to say…" you begin, and stop for a moment. "i'm sorry."

 _Doesn't matter,_ they form with their hands. _You're lazy and I'm used to it._

"still. i shouldn't've done that, kid."

They abruptly slip off the roof and fall to the ground gracefully, landing right beside you. The expression on their face when they look at you isn't really angry. It's more like a sort of resigned annoyance. They wipe their slightly sweaty palms on the sides of their jeans, and respond. _Why do you keep calling me that?_

"keep calling you what?" you ask, and then realization hits you like a ton of very heavy and very obvious bricks. "wait, you mean 'kid'?"

 _I'm n-o-t a kid,_ they sign, spelling out one of the words for emphasis. _Not anymore._

You fix them with a look that you hope is stern and mature. "you are to me."

 _How old are you, anyway?_ they sign, and flop down onto the metal bench with enough attitude to make it creak dramatically.

"couple hundred years, give or take," you reply casually, and cross your arms at the incredulous look they give you. "what? you already know that monsters age slower than humans."

 _A hundred years,_ they sign, eyebrows raised. _Really?_

"yup."

They're still for a moment, and then they smile, hands darting up to form a single word. _Cool._

You sit next to them, and ruffle their hair like you did when they were shorter than you and a whole lot younger, and you think you hear them giggle slightly, even as they push you irritably away.

"how 'bout this," you offer. "next time you've got some sort of function or whatever on, i'll come with you. no complaints."

 _Done,_ they sign almost instantly, but you raise a hand to forestall them.

" _but._ you have to let me keep calling you kid, and stop _ribbing_ me about it."

Their hands hover in mid-air, as if unsure as what to say. _Puns,_ they decide on eventually. _Really?_

"yup," you say. "always. but seriously, what d'you say?"

They nod, a bit reluctantly, and your skeletal grin increases a few inches. You reach out and offer them your hand.

"let's go home, kiddo."

* * *

 _Doing it all over again._

 _You've lost count of how many times the human's reset everything, moments before getting everything right. It's one of two situations. Either everyone's there, gathered at the barrier, preparing to go out and see the sun for the first time, or it's just you two left, facing off in a long hallway with light shining in from the outside._

 _You don't know why they're doing it anymore._

 _You don't know why you're doing in anymore._

 _There's no point to this._

 _Your life starts slowing down to a halt. Papyrus notices, and tries to jolt you out of it, but it doesn't matter because soon he'll either be dead or you'll all be back at the beginning and there's nothing you can do to stop it._

 _And then one day-_

 _Nothing resets._

 _You're on the surface, you're all happy, and the kid is looking almost radiantly pleased with themselves. And all you can think is-_

 _Why?_

 _The two of you talk long and hard into the night later on, and you think you finally understand some things, although you'll never really understand or forgive them for killing everyone- especially Papyrus (especially you) but at least it's some sense of closure._

 _You're not exactly friends._

 _But at least you're not enemies, either._

* * *

Your phone beeps.

\- _Press conference on Saturday. Come with me?_

* _fine_

\- _You have to wear a suit._

* _fine_

\- _You're not complaining?_

* _promised i wouldn't_

\- _Wow.  
-See you then?_

* _k_

You stare at the string of text messages for a minute, before placing the phone down on your side table, and sighing a bit. Press conferences. Whatever next?

"hey, papyrus," you call out your door. "wanna help me get dressed up for frisk's thing?"

An enthusiastic holler from downstairs is his response.

Yeah, you're not exactly friends with Frisk.

But you're pretty darn close.

And that's good enough for the both of you.

* * *

 **End**


End file.
